


all about that personality crisis (you got it while it was hot)

by congratsyouvegrownasoul



Series: time goes by; it's the time of your life [1]
Category: The Borgias (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Kid Fic, Rodrigo is still highly flawed, and the kids are probably not all right, brofeels, in which Vannozza is still flawless, oops i did it again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 19:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2399318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/congratsyouvegrownasoul/pseuds/congratsyouvegrownasoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Since when has our family ever been normal?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	all about that personality crisis (you got it while it was hot)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrioritiesSorted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrioritiesSorted/gifts).



> For the talented and magnificent Beatrice on the anniversary of her birth. With much love and slight sadism, a humble gift. Nah, who am I kidding, it's a badass, extremely arrogant gift. Enjoy. 
> 
> More general notes:  
> The title and scattered quotes are from "Personality Crisis" by New York Dolls.  
> I hope the timeline is understandable.  
> I set this in my home city and my apologies to the good people of Georgetown Hospital, because every time I've been in there they were perfectly productive, but it was necessary for Plot Reasons. Also, the house in which the Borgias live, with the moat and the turret, is a real house, and it's both slightly tacky and glorious.

_but now frustration and heartache is what you got_

* * *

“Cesare, do you think Dad’s having a mid-life crisis?”

His sister’s voice is deceptively casual, but Cesare reads her body language instinctively, as if it were his mother tongue. Lucrezia crosses and uncrosses her ankles, the smooth skin of her joints brushing against his bedspread.

Cesare sits down next to her, box springs bouncing softly under his weight, and shifts sideways, nudging his shoulder against Lucrezia’s, trying to reassure her.

“Certainly not a stereotypical one, I suppose. No divorce, and he already had a flashy sports car.”

She laughs, softly, tossing her hair over one shoulder. Her curls brush his arm, and he thinks he may have, perhaps, succeeded in staving off her sadness.

“That’s the thing, though. It might have been different if they just, you know, got divorced like normal people. Paolo’s parents are divorced, and he’s got every other weekend with his dad and he doesn’t really like his new stepmom and it’s the same old story, right? There’s no ‘same old story’ for your parents splitting up but not actually wanting to actually get a divorce and still living in the same house. And…I really do like Giulia, but I can’t deny having her be around and with Dad makes things even weirder.”

Cesare frowns, trying to think of how to explain something he hasn’t entirely wrapped his head around himself.

“Would you rather only see Dad every other weekend? Or have him bringing some annoying woman into our lives and acting like she’s supposed to replace Mom?”

Lucrezia wrinkles her nose, weighing the options. “Definitely not. And I can see why they want to do it this way. But…it would just be nice to have even the rough things be a bit more normal.”

Cesare laughs, and to his surprise it’s not at all forced.

“Since when has our family ever been normal?”

Lucrezia leans her head against his shoulder, curling her arms around him. He slips into the hug effortlessly, folding his body to make a space for hers.

“Don’t try to be like everybody else when you leave. You’re still a Borgia, and this is your home. Don’t forget that.”

“Lucrezia, I’m going to college an hour away, not waging war. You’ll be fine without me for a while.”

Her grip on him tightens, almost imperceptibly, if he wasn’t so acutely aware of her presence. Lucrezia lifts her face to his, and she is glowing in the dull gold lamplight, fiercely tentative.

“I’ll still miss you. I would have missed you more than anything anyway, but with everything changing it’s much worse.”

Cesare reluctantly pulls out of her embrace, wrapping one hand around each of her shoulders, turning her to face him. The space between them widens; room enough for an understanding, between bodies and eyes in parallel.

“Lucrezia. If you ever want me, all you need to do is call me. I’ll drop everything and come home. I’ll hot-wire a car, hitchhike--I’ll even take public transportation if I have to. And even if you don’t call, I’ll come home anyway, because I’ll miss you too.”

“More than anything?”

“More than anything.”

Lucrezia smiles, and just like that she is beatific as always, worries bleeding out of her face entirely. She leans back, her body falling softly against his bed, and gazes up at him.

“Good.”

* * *

 This is bad,Lucrezia thinks to herself, with the bald certainty of her four-year-old mind. Yet, she’s calm, partly because it hasn’t really sunk in yet how bad this is, and partially because she knows Cesare will fix it. She looks at her big brother expectantly, waiting for him to save them, just as she waited earlier for him and Juan to entertain her.

“Get Mom! Run!”

His voice is panicked, and that makes her realize that the situation might be badder than bad, it might have progressed all the way to Worse. She could pause and wonder over this new development, or look a little closer in morbid curiosity to see exactly how Juan’s hurt himself, but Cesare yells again—“Lucrezia, now! Get Mom!”—and so she turns and runs as fast as her short legs can carry her.

When she runs, the little L.E.D. butterflies on her brand-new sneakers light up, and she admires the way the pink and yellow lights flash. The butterflies carry her all the way to the front door, which is still propped open, which is good. Even though she can reach all the way up to the doorknob now, and slide her fingers around the engraved braid on the edges, she’s not strong enough to push the towering slab of glossy wood aside.

She stands in the middle of the front room, between the stairway and the big, shiny black-backed piano, and decides that it’s not worth wasting time or running all the way around the house. So she yells for her mother.

“In here,” comes the response from the tower room. The rooms in the tower are her favorite part of the house, because they remind her of Disney-movie princesses and because she can stretch out her arms to fit snugly in the curve of the outside wall. Their house looks like a castle, to her, even though she knows it’s really just a big brick house with ivy on the walls. But it makes a good backdrop for play-pretend, and she is always the princess, except when she wants to be the queen. Juan is always the knight, or he won’t play. Cesare plays the witch, the wicked stepsister, the sorcerer—whatever role she casts him in. Sometimes, Daddy makes a very imposing dragon.

Lucrezia runs to the tower room. Her baby brother is in his playpen, lying supine and placidly sucking on the ears of a stuffed elephant. Mama is sitting near him, on the window-seat, facing the part of the garden where the bigger boys aren’t, the part that looks over at the neighbor’s garden with the fountain. She puts her book down on the cushion beside her, making sure the pages don’t come splayed outwards from the spine.

“What is it, honey?”

Lucrezia plants her feet, squares her shoulders, and delivers her message.

“Juan and Cesare were playing with skateboards and Juan wanted to do a half-pipe in the ditch that looks like a moat and Cesare said that was stupid but he did it anyway and he landed funny and Cesare said to go get you, so I got you, okay, Mama?”

Her mother stiffens, rising abruptly.  

“I leave them alone for a moment—Come on, Lucrezia, let’s go.”

She heads for the door, not quite running. Lucrezia trails behind, waving bye to Joffre.

When they get outside, Lucrezia realizes that the situation is in fact Worse. Cesare is trying to pull Juan out of the ditch and gasping, and Juan’s arm is hanging at an angle that isn’t normal for brothers, maybe for rag dolls. Juan isn’t crying, but he’s shaking all over. Cesare, she notices with a funny sick shock when he looks up at them, is crying.  This is wrong, because crying isn’t brave, and it isn’t grown-up, and Cesare isn’t just the oldest of them, he’s the bravest person she knows, except maybe Daddy, even if Juan is the one who always plays the knight. But he’s still crying.

“Mom, I think his arm’s broken!”

“Oh, my God—”

Mama is actually running now, over to the ditch and swinging her long legs down into it. Lucrezia bounces anxiously, butterflies flashing.

“I told you! I _told_ you not to try that! You’re so _stupid_ ,” Cesare sobs, letting go of Juan, and standing with his hands clenched in hard, angry fists.

Juan is going to snipe back, Lucrezia knows. _I know you are, but what am I?_

But he doesn’t. He just curls up into a little ball, clutching his arm. Mama bends down over him, making little fussing comforting noises with her tongue like she does when she’s trying to get Joffre to nurse.

Cesare stands back, awkward, wiping his sleeve across his eyes. Lucrezia is heading over to take his hand when Mama looks back up at them, and her eyes are scared, which is scary.

Her voice, though, is calm and level.

“We’re going to go to the hospital. Don’t worry. Everything will be okay.”

This, of course, is Juan’s cue to finally start crying.

* * *

  _when it sure got to be a shame_

_when you start to scream and shout_

* * *

“Are you…doing okay?”

Ascanio Sforza blinks at her, owl-like, in befuddled compassion, from behind glasses she knows he doesn’t really need. The clear, useless lenses and chunky tortoiseshell frames are a recent acquisition, concurrent with his and Rodrigo’s new positions. They are meant, Vannozza assumes, to convey an air of intellectual acumen and maturity, an air that should be as natural as breathing to someone who has spent a career balancing the dueling roles of politician and civil servant. Unfortunately, these particular frames just make Sforza look even more like a dorky high school math teacher.

Deceptive looks aside, though, the man is a master at what he does; in the office, and otherwise. Dealing with Rodrigo and helping Rodrigo deal with the rest of the world is a difficult task. She ought to know.

Vannozza is not surprised by his quiet concern, although the hesitation with which he speaks is uncharacteristic. The platitudes do not particularly gratify her. They are just another thing to handle.

She stands on the threshold, facing the visitor’s unconventional greeting, and resigns herself.

“I’m coping, thank you.”

She moves aside, inviting him in with a gesture, a dismissal.

“Rodrigo’s in the study upstairs…”

Sforza slides past her, carefully side-stepping the coatrack.

“Actually, I came to talk to you.”

He avoids her eyes, she notices, but his voice is earnest enough.

This, too, is surprising. She had supposed him to offer up basic sympathy in passing, rather than just ignoring the issue entirely as some did. But actually seeking out a conversation about the sort of things that, by custom, people did not discuss…it is infuriating, that he does not accord her the decency of convention, but it is also oddly touching.

And yet, she reminds herself forcibly, she cannot possibly still be naive, cannot discard the potential for ulterior motives. Sforza is a politician, as Rodrigo is. Of course, Rodrigo can be motivated by nothing more than impulse and passion, as he has so amply proved lately, but that is personal, not political. She does not know yet whether Sforza is here as himself, whatever he is, or as a cog in the machine.

Vannozza crosses her arms over her chest and prepares to conduct her own, small inquisition.

“Really? You needn’t bother--it’s not in my best interests to unleash a sex scandal. I may not be able to control what goes on in my own home, but my children don’t need to see their father’s failings lambasted on national television.”

He is forced to look up, then, eyes widening behind those ridiculous glasses, shocked perhaps at her bitter candidness. They could have their disguises and their secrets; she would not put the lie to her feelings, at least not here.  Her home and her family are not entirely part of their world, at least not yet. If all this is worth carrying on, putting the past behind her, surely it is not worth leaving her soul behind too?

Sforza clears his throat, as if embarking on some great spout of oratory.

“I’m sorry. I really am. I’m sorry that I came here intending to defuse conflict for anyone’s sake but yours, and I’m sorry that I came in here trying to cover Rodrigo’s ass when he really doesn’t deserve my help there, and mostly I’m sorry that you have to deal with this. And honestly I understand if you don’t believe me but I want to know if I can do anything to help.”

She may be naive, but she does believe him. Maybe it’s a sort of strength, really, to hold on to scraps of idealism when the world is so desperate to tear them down. Vannozza hopes there is power in gentleness, because while she does not wish to be cruel, she cannot bring herself to be weak.

Sforza waits, ever cautious, to see whether he has passed the test. She nods her answer, and takes her turn, waiting for whatever advice he’s got.

“I can’t make him undo this, you know.”

“I know.”

It is possible, even easy sometimes, to coax and cajole Rodrigo into doing things--but he cannot be simply forced to do anything he doesn’t want himself. She is not sure that even the most capable enticement could persuade him to return, and she doesn’t believe she could forgive him enough to try.

She sees tension settle in Sforza’s shoulders; perhaps he expected to convince her of the futility she has already acknowledged. Nervous, he loses his composure and speaks in stops and starts.

“I see him a lot and I have some idea of how he’s handling it, but he’s the one who instigated this, and he wanted this, and I...I know it’s a huge adjustment for you, and the kids, and you’re the ones dealing with the fallout of his damn mid-life crisis, and I can’t even imagine what that’s like and...I’m sorry.”

He echoes his own apology lamely, and then his voice trails off, and somehow she finds herself covering up the silence.

“I feel like I’m the one who’s having the crisis, not him,” Vannozza blurts.

Sforza’s eyebrows raise an infinitesimal degree, but he inclines his head, letting her continue.

“He seems perfectly content about everything to me. I…I feel like the bottom has dropped out of my life and I’m still living around the edges pretending I can see the floor I’m standing on.”

“Because you’re still living with him?”

“I suppose. You know, we said we were doing that for the children, but I think we did it for us. So we could still have our patterns and our support system without pretending that whatever went wrong hadn’t.”

Everything is the same, in some ways. Rodrigo still brings her his reports for her to proofread, even the classified ones, although he is shyer now when he accepts her corrections. He still, sometimes, brings his complaints and his tribulations, and she offers what advice she can. She finds herself able to muster few words of comfort, but surely Giulia Farnese can give him what he needs there, as she fulfills other desires that are no longer Vannozza’s domain. And he still, despite it all, makes her laugh. The jocular monkey-faced pancakes he shapes for Joffre—and Lucrezia, even though she is fifteen and considers herself far too old for such childishness—on Saturday mornings almost make her forget the moments in the night when she reaches out and he is not there.

Even if they thought of themselves when they decided not to entirely break asunder, she must continue to think of the children when she struggles to rebuild. She must think of the family.

They still eat dinner every night as a family, and Rodrigo, as he always has, says grace before the meal, holding Lucrezia’s hand on one side and Juan’s on the other. She sits at the other head of the table, facing him, holding on to Cesare and Joffre, and sometimes she thinks of the day her then-fifteen-year-old firstborn told her he didn’t think he believed in God. She watches Cesare mouth the words of the prayer Rodrigo leads, their heads bowed together, the shepherd still unaware of the hearts of his sheep. Cesare, in his own way, worships an almighty father, albeit an earthly one. Who is she to take that from him, his idol with feet of clay?

And Lucrezia? Still so young, and content without striving for approval and independence—separating Lucrezia and her father would break both their hearts. Joffre, even younger, clearly needs a whole if haphazard home. Juan, on the other hand…she often thought Juan would benefit from being made to stand on his own, but not like that.

No, she must think of the family first. They all must.

Ascanio Sforza blinks at her, another of their spinning satellites—Rodrigo does seem to collect allies almost as fast as he does adoration and enemies—phoning in to Ground Control to offer unexpected help.

“So you feel like this arrangement hasn’t worked out for you as well as for Rodrigo and the children?”

“I don’t know. We’re still family, and we still love each other, and that helps, but it does feel a little like I’m the one making sacrifices so that everyone else can have as little disruption as possible. And…I will make sacrifices for my children, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be a little angry about it.”

Family first, she tells herself. Feel your anger, but don’t let it blind you to what is more important.

“I think that’s healthy. I’m amazed you all are still living under the same roof functionally, honestly. Being a bit pissed off is natural.”

He nods in agreement with himself, as if he’s said something profoundly wise.

“You know what I think you should try?”

“I already do yoga, Ascanio.”

Sforza grins sheepishly.

“If I were advising myself, I’d suggest yoga. For you…I think you should talk to my cousin Caterina. She joined an all-female biker gang after her divorce, and I think it’s really helped her solidify her sense of self-worth.”

Vannozza snorts, despite herself. No wonder Rodrigo’s best lieutenant is so willing to gravitate towards their family, considering the wild intricacies of his own. She thinks of the many odd and obscene Sforza stories of the past, and finds the thought bizarrely comforting.

“Is this the cousin who did time for tax fraud or the one who had the auto-erotic asphyxiation incident?”

He winces.

“Neither. Caterina’s the one who was my date for the Christmas party at work a few years ago? Wore a backless evening gown and combat boots?”

“Took a switchblade out of her purse in the ladies’ room while looking for her lipstick?”

“Well, I wasn’t in the ladies’ room at the time, clearly, but I would imagine so.”

Vannozza finds herself laughing.

“You know, considering my current living situation I don’t think I have room to judge, but your family is a collective basket case.”

“What can I say? I’m the white sheep.”

* * *

Vannozza can’t help but feel that she’s failed, somehow. Juan wouldn’t have broken his arm if she hadn’t left the boys to play alone...but then as much as it feels otherwise sometimes, especially with the new baby, she is more than the sum of four children. It was only bad luck that Juan had happened to choose this particular thoughtless stunt for the moment she turned her back. She can’t rely on Cesare to stop him every time, either, because while her boys are certainly worlds apart by nature, they’re only a year apart by birth. It is unreasonable of her to expect a reckless six-year-old to obey his just slightly bigger, slightly older brother, however sensible the commands. It is still infuriating, however.

God, what a mess. But she can’t blame herself for the situation, and she had dealt with it to the best of her ability. For starters, she hadn’t forgotten Joffre, although one docile, happy baby indoors would have been easy to miss in the bustle of shepherding his distressed siblings into the car. By that point, Joffre was the only one of the kids who wasn’t crying, and Vannozza could feel tears starting in her own eyes, although she desperately willed them not to come.

She’d called Rodrigo’s office on the way to the hospital, juggling the car phone on its jerking extension cord in one hand and clutching the wheel in the other. He wasn’t yet back from a meeting on Capitol Hill, but his secretary said she would page him.

“Tell him Juan has a broken arm and we’re going to the E.R. at Georgetown Hospital.”

She’d had three of her children at Georgetown--Juan had come early when they were visiting Rodrigo’s family in California. She liked the hospital because it had her OB-GYN and the children’s pediatrician and their general practitioner in the same building, and Rodrigo liked to talk about how the facility was run on Catholic principles, although the more worldly fact that they had put his name in prominent gold letters on the wall of donors probably helped too. Rodrigo’s attitude towards his religion had always puzzled her. He wanted his doctor to be a good Catholic; he went to Mass every Sunday without fail and confronted the priest afterwards with compliments or questions on his sermon. And yet he hadn’t gotten around to marrying her until she was pregnant with their second child, and didn’t seem to see any discord between that and his beliefs. It didn’t bother her--she found his faith attractive, although she didn’t share the strength of his convictions, and she hadn’t been any more eager than he was to get married. But it was certainly odd.

She had never had the misfortune of a trip to the Georgetown E.R. before, and could not have imagined the strife of being stuck in the waiting room with a whimpering child who the nurses didn’t seem to understand needed painkillers and to have his arm set as soon as possible. Half an hour after checking in at the front desk, they still haven’t been assigned a doctor or a room of their own, and Vannozza has completely discarded any appreciation for convenience, Catholic principles, and invitations to donor events. She just needs to get out of this damned, crowded, noisy waiting room.

They have finally managed to get three seats together, and Juan is lying stretched across two of them with his head in her lap, which means that the other children have to sit on the floor. Cesare frets, chin in hands, legs twitching nervously. Lucrezia, curled up beside him, kicks her own legs and stamps her feet to watch the butterflies light up. Joffre, buckled into his carrier at her feet, is blissfully asleep. He’d been fussy earlier, and she’d had to feed him, getting Juan to turn his head aside so she could try and balance the baby at her breast. A man with what looked like a nasty case of hives had given her a dirty look from across the aisle, as if she’d committed some great indecency by publicly nursing her son. Or perhaps it was more than that--she had too many children, took up too much space. Vannozza had glared back, but stifled the urge to ask this judgmental bystander what exactly was so wrong about her family.

Juan, cradled in her lap, is unnaturally quiet, lying with his arm flopping, unhinged. His eyes are screwed tight, as if the bright, glaring fluorescent lights hurt to look at. Vannozza smooths his hair away from his forehead, running her fingers gently through the roots of his curls.

“Mom? Am I gonna get a doctor soon?”

He’d damn well better, Vannozza thinks to herself.

“I hope so, sweetie. You’re being very brave.”

Cesare looks up, his chubby face still anxious.

“Mom? I need to go to the bathroom.”

Vannozza cranes her neck, looking for a bathroom sign and wondering whether it would be so terrible to let him go alone in a strange place so she can stay with Juan and wait for the nurse.

“Me too, Mama.”

It is a pity, she thinks drily, that one never thinks to say ‘run and use the bathroom now before we rush your brother to the hospital’, but then again, one is always too busy doing the ever-important rushing.

“Do you think you could just hold it--”

“Daddy!” Lucrezia squeals, interrupting her and pointing across the waiting room.

Vannozza smiles in relief, turning to look. Rodrigo is striding purposefully into the waiting room, in his office clothes, scanning for them. She waves to catch his attention; Cesare and Lucrezia are on their feet, waving as well. Juan raises his head and opens his eyes.

She knew not to explicitly demand that Rodrigo drop business and politics and all those matters of consequence for an injured child, but she also knew he would, and even if she might have managed without him, it certainly helps.

Lucrezia runs to greet him, hugging his legs, and he stoops down and picks her up, letting her throw her arms around his neck and muss his hair. The movement is born more out of habitual affection than the spirit of the moment; his attention is focused entirely on Vannozza and Juan, sitting on the flimsy plastic chairs.

“How is he? How are you feeling, Juan?”

Juan attempts a heroic smile.

“I’m okay, Dad.”

“I think he’s in some pain, but it’s more shock than anything,” Vannozza explains. “The bone didn’t break the skin.”

“Thank God.” Rodrigo glances around the crowded room, his anxiety shifting into anger. “Have you been X-Rayed yet? How long have you been here?”

“Apparently we’re not the only people who had accidents today. We were supposed to get taken to the X-Ray room within thirty minutes, and it’s been--thirty-seven” she finishes, checking her wristwatch.

“What is wrong with these people?” Rodrigo is positively twitching with indignation. “Have you been to complain yet?”

“I would have, but need I remind you I would have three children hanging onto my legs and a baby in a basket? Not exactly intimidating.”

“Of course.” He nods grimly. “I’ll go. You shall have your X-Ray if I have to raise hell to do it.”

He stalks off, still carrying Lucrezia on his hip, as if forgetting she was there.

“Now am I gonna get a doctor?”

“Let’s wait and see, Juan, but I think you just might.”

She and Cesare stare avidly across to the front desk, watching Rodrigo do battle with an attendant nurse. He doesn't look particularly intimidating from this far away, a tall, lean figure holding a blonde little girl tight to his side with one hand, and gesticulating wildly with the other. The nurse looks irritated at first, then defensive, and finally the man's face takes on an expression of the utmost shell-shock. Vannozza and Cesare share a smug smile.

"Your dad's really kicking butt, isn't he?"

"Lucrezia's helping."

At the front desk, the nurse has fetched what must be a superior officer in the medical corps, a plump woman in a white lab coat. The doctor and Rodrigo exchange a few words, and then Rodrigo turns around, as haughtily as he can with Lucrezia hanging on to him, and heads back in their direction.

"We did it!" Lucrezia crows, sliding down out of her father's grip and landing on the floor. "The doctor lady says Juan and Daddy can go with her!"

Rodrigo looks rather pleased with himself as well, although he's still got his hackles up from the confrontation.

"What exactly did you tell them?" Vannozza laughs. Even Juan is sitting up now, still blinking in confusion but no longer listless.

"Nothing much. I said I was a donor, name-dropped the president, threatened eternal damnation...nothing I couldn't deliver on."

Vannozza stands up, shaking out the numbness in her legs. "Okay, Juan, honey, go with your dad for the X-Ray. Rodrigo, will you take Joffre with you too? He's sleeping, he shouldn't be much trouble. You two, we're going to the bathroom."

By the time they're finished, Juan's been moved to another room waiting to have his bone set. When they find the room, he's lying on his side on the hospital bed, clearly slightly giddy from the painkillers. Rodrigo sits by his bedside, holding the X-Ray and pointing out the Latin names of the arm bones in a silly accent, while Juan giggles. 

"Feeling better?"

"Yeah! Dr. Patton said I could get a Superman cast, and Dad's gonna take me to the fancy ice cream place and I can get whatever I want, even if it ruins my dinner."

He frowns, struck by a deep thought.

"Should I get two different flavored ice creams, or one ginormous ice cream?"

"As they say, a ginormous ice cream in the hand is worth two in the bush," Rodrigo says solemnly, and then snorts with laughter at his own joke.

It is that, more than the joke itself, that makes Vannozza giggle.

"I want ice cream too," Lucrezia says sullenly.

"You can't have ice cream, because you weren't hurt and you don't get a reward for being brave,"

"Be nice," Rodrigo says, patting Juan's leg.

Vannozza sees Lucrezia pouting and feels Cesare's hand tighten almost painfully around hers, and she speaks up.

"You were all really brave today, but more importantly you did the right thing in a crisis."

She turns to Rodrigo.

"Lucrezia ran right to me when Juan got hurt, and Cesare took very good care of his brother. And everybody was a spectacular sport in the car and waiting at the hospital."

She neglects to mention the part where they all cried.

Rodrigo smiles proudly.

"I would expect no less. I believe everyone deserves ice cream. What do you think?"

Vannozza would prefer to have Juan fixed up and go home for a normal, solid dinner that she doesn't have to cook, but she can't exactly renege on a promise made by her partner, especially not when Cesare is beaming like that, more at the inclusion that at the promise of sweets.

"I think I deserve some myself," she says.

Her words trigger an explosion of excited chatter.

"Does Joffre get ice cream? All he did was sleep."

"Lucrezia, honey, he doesn't eat ice cream yet."

"I want the _biggest_ ice cream, since it's _my_ broken arm."

"I think I want chocolate," says Cesare blissfully.

* * *

_oh, don’t you worry, please don’t cry_

_it’s just a personality crisis, please don’t stop  
_

 


End file.
